Sacrificial Wolf
by Wilusa
Summary: Quentin and Jamison Collins try, in their different ways, to resolve a new werewolf crisis in the 1950s. Note: This is the completed portion of a work in progress.
1. Quentin

  
DISCLAIMER: _Dark Shadows_ and its canon characters are the property of Dan Curtis Productions; no copyright infringement is intended.  
  
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_A first for me: I'm cleaning up and posting the completed portion of an unfinished (barely begun!) story, in the hope that working on it will galvanize me to resume writing.  
  
This fic is part of the same universe as "Bitter End" and "Thorns Along the Way." It begins several weeks after the events of "Bitter End," in 1955. ("Thorns" takes place in 1960.)  
  
I should also establish--though no descriptions will appear until later in the story--that werewolves in my fiction are four-legged wolves, oversized and luminous. Ripped clothing has fallen away. When a werewolf morphs back into human form he'll be naked, or at most, scantily clad.  
  
I realize "Bitter End" isn't great literature (grins). So here, in a nutshell, is what the reader needs to know.  
  
In this universe, Laura Collins' vices include pedophilia. She took advantage of the boy Quentin and pressured him to have sex with her--with the result that Jamison, only fifteen years Quentin's junior, is in fact his son. Over the years, Quentin and Jamison have both realized this.  
  
Jamison, like his father, is a werewolf. He has long been protected by his best friend, Dr. Julian Hoffman. Julian discovered that if a werewolf is merely locked up during the full moon and not allowed to kill living beings, the timing of the transformations will become unpredictable (as later happens with Chris Jennings). So he provides stray animals to be Jamison's victims.  
  
The curse also affected Jamison's eldest son Gavin (my original character), a near-lookalike for Quentin. Gavin fled to Europe...and encountered Count Petofi, who had for years been using the body of resurrected prison warden Garth Blackwood. Petofi mistook Gavin for Quentin and performed another mind-switch. Assuming his new body was protected by the still-missing portrait, Petofi was caught by surprise by a werewolf transformation. That night, villagers killed the werewolf with a silver bullet!   
  
Gavin's original body has been destroyed, burned by those villagers. But he's free of the curse and has a body--Blackwood's--that's seemingly as indestructible as Quentin's. Grandfather and grandson have met. Quentin urged Gavin to tell Jamison the truth about what's happened to him, lest Jamison think him dead._  
  
_Now, several weeks later..._  
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"Signor Corelli! I know you're there. Let me in!"  
  
Quentin Collins woke with a start. Opened his eyes, and closed them quickly as light lanced into them.  
  
_Oh, God._  
  
His head was throbbing, and the pounding on the door didn't help. He could feel every blow.  
  
He drew a deep, shuddering breath, gave the bedclothes a kick--and almost kicked a sleeping woman out of bed. Her only response was a grunt.  
  
The pounding continued. Quentin forced his eyes open again, and struggled to a sitting position on the edge of the bed.  
  
He tried to think.  
  
He was in a residential hotel in...Monte Carlo. "Corelli," his alias, was a professional gambler. The woman, now snoring loudly, called herself Desiree.  
  
God, he hoped the man at the door wasn't her husband.  
  
"Please, Signor! I have to talk to you!"  
  
"Awright, I'm comin'. Keep it down!"  
  
Oh, that was bright. He'd replied in English, following the other man's lead, but he'd forgotten Corelli should speak it with an Italian accent.  
  
His speech was so slurred that it probably didn't matter.  
  
He lurched to his feet. And felt so bad that his first stop had to be the mirror.  
  
He relaxed slightly when he saw nothing amiss. The man peering back at him was still a tousle-haired 27-year-old, in peak condition despite his hangover. Wearing pajama bottoms that met the requirements of decency, but left his well-muscled arms and torso exposed.  
  
Maybe the husband would be so daunted that he wouldn't notice he could barely stand up.  
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"Come on, hurry!" Lower: "It's Gavin."  
  
"Gavin?" Quentin stumbled to the door. Flung it open--and heaved a sigh of relief.  
  
Whatever crisis had brought him here, Gavin appeared to be all right. A bearded man in his forties, using two canes for balance while he adjusted to an artificial leg.  
  
"Ah, grandson." Quentin eyed him reproachfully. "The boundless energy of youth. Don't you know it's cruel to wake your poor old Grandpa at this ungodly--what time is it, anyway?"  
  
"Past noon." Gavin elbowed his way into the suite and glanced into the bedroom. "For Christ's sake, are you always this careless? I was afraid you were dead in here. I haven't risked getting drunk in years. Or picking up women, either."  
  
"I'm careful about birth control. Usually." He swayed slightly. "Come to think of it, there wasn't any sex last night. I took a shower, and by the time I got back, she'd passed out."  
  
"Serves you right, you old reprobate." Gavin didn't sound as if he was joking.  
  
Quentin eased himself into a chair. "Hey, I don't do this often. I'm still--I don't like to say 'celebrating' a death, even Petofi's. But I feel safer than I have in a half-century. Can you imagine living for fifty-eight years with the fear, every time you go to sleep, that you'll wake up in another body?"  
  
"Fifty-eight years? I guess that was pretty grim." Gavin's frown relaxed into something that was almost, but not quite, a smile.  
  
Quentin closed his eyes and began taking deep, regular breaths, willing himself to sober up in a hurry.  
  
Something was wrong, or Gavin wouldn't have tracked him down. Only a few weeks ago they'd agreed not to stay in touch, beyond one elaborately planned contact every six months. Checking in, so if something happened to either of them, the other would learn about it soon enough to have a chance of avenging him. He still had enemies, and Gavin might have inherited some of Petofi's...  
  
He smelled coffee. Gavin had obviously found the kitchen.  
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An hour later Desiree was gone, and the men were settled on the balcony with a pot of the strongest coffee Quentin had ever tasted.  
  
He drained his fifth cup, leaned back, and let himself enjoy the sea breeze and the hot afternoon sun that beat down on his face and chest.  
  
Safe.  
  
Free.  
  
At least by comparison with the years that had gone before.  
  
And he knew it was all about to crumble, as soon as he began asking questions.  
  
He sat up straight and looked steadily at his grandson. "Okay. I know there's a serious problem, or you wouldn't be here. Tell me what it is."  
  
Gavin twisted his hands in his lap. He stared out at the Mediterranean, refusing to meet Quentin's eyes. "I...I shouldn't have come."  
  
"Now look! I'm sorry if my lifestyle offends you. I'm no saint, never have been. But I do care about you--"  
  
"It's not your lifestyle." Gavin's voice cracked. "It's just that...I acted like a baby, running to the first person I could think of to scream 'Help!' But you can't help. No one can.  
  
"I shouldn't be burdening you with this. Now I'm here, I suppose I'll have to tell you. And all that will accomplish is to make you feel--" He choked. "Not as bad as I do. No one can share the torment I'm going through!"  
  
He lowered his head, staring at the clenched hands in his lap. At last he said, "Six years a werewolf, and I never wanted to die. _Now_ I want to. And I can't." His shoulders heaved as he began to sob.  
  
Quentin's blood ran cold. He moved his chair closer to Gavin's and put an arm around him. Nightmarish possibilities raced through his mind.  
  
_No! Don't let your imagination run away with you. Get at the truth._  
  
"Tell me what's happened," he said, keeping his voice calm. "Don't assume I can't do anything. I may surprise you.  
  
"But even if this is a situation no one can change, it helps to have someone to talk to, to offer moral support. Believe me, I know."  
  
How well he remembered his long, fruitless search for the one friend he had dared to trust. Barnabas Collins, who had apparently vanished from the face of the earth after he eloped with Kitty Soames.  
  
"All right." Gavin took a deep breath. "To begin with, I did call Dad, like you suggested."  
  
Quentin's chest tightened. _Jamison._ "Is he all right? How did he take it?" _I don't want to know I don't want to know I don't want to know..._  
  
"Very--very well, actually. He--he was shocked when I explained the--the physical change in me.  
  
"But when he understood, he was overjoyed. For me and for you. He couldn't stop crying.  
  
"He adores you, Quentin. He was so thankful you're alive and well!"  
  
Quentin gave a bemused shake of his head. "He has to know I'm responsible for the werewolf curse. I brought this horror on him, and on you. But...go on."  
  
"Dr. Hoffman--Dad's best friend, Julian Hoffman--had told him the same thing you told me. That my 'death' wouldn't cause the curse to pass to my younger brother. There hadn't been a full moon, that night I talked to Dad, but he wasn't worried. He was so happy..."  
  
Quentin stiffened. "Are you saying he shouldn't have been happy? My God--_did_ something happen to your brother?"  
  
"Yes! I--I was uneasy. I c-called again after the full moon.  
  
"Quentin, _my brother Roger became a werewolf!_"_  
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_"Damn!" Quentin exploded out of his chair. "I can't understand this. I've done a lot of research over the years. I've never heard of a curse passing to a younger brother."  
  
"Julian Hoffman said the same thing. Could it have happened because some...dark power...knew I wasn't really dead, I'd cheated the curse?"  
  
"I find that hard to believe." Quentin frowned. "Wait a minute. I assume you don't have any children that you know of?"  
  
"No. And almost certainly none that I don't know of. Dad warned me when I was fourteen. I'm not a virgin, but I've been very careful."  
  
"That's it," Quentin breathed. "It must be. I've investigated cases of men who supposedly left no children--I'm sure this Dr. Hoffman did, too. But so many men have 'accidents.' That has to be it, Gavin! We thought we knew what would happen, but we didn't, because all those other men had illegitimate sons."  
  
"Makes sense. But this wouldn't have happened to Roger if I'd lived my life responsibly, like Dad! Hadn't run off to Europe, killed more people, forced those French villagers to try to destroy me..." Gavin's voice rose as he became more agitated. "I'm the only member of the family who refused help! Julian wanted to protect me, like he does Dad. But I was furious with both of them--with Dad for bringing children into the world, and Julian for encouraging him. And now, when I think what my foolish pride has caused..." He covered his eyes, and a shudder ran through his sturdy body.  
  
Quentin sat down, putting a comforting arm around him again. "There's no point in torturing yourself. We all bear some of the blame for what happened. But remember, you were also indirectly responsible for putting an end to Count Petofi--"  
  
"I don't give a damn about Petofi!"  
  
Quentin cursed himself. _Of course not. Why should he?_  
  
"All right...no, of course you don't." He tried another approach. "Gavin, I know what happened to your brother is tragic. But Dr. Hoffman is taking care of him, isn't he? He can have a long, full life, like your father."  
  
Only a moment passed before Gavin looked at him and said, "Yes." But there was something about that moment's hesitation...and the look on his face, suddenly guarded, secretive...  
  
Quentin's blood turned to ice again.  
  
He grabbed Gavin, yanked him around in the chair and forced him to look him squarely in the eyes. "Tell me what else has happened!"  
  
"N-nothing else."  
  
"You're lying." Quentin's heart was pounding. "Gavin--was your brother killed that first night?"  
  
"No."  
  
"I know there's something you haven't told me. Oh, God. Did--did the shock kill Jamison?"  
  
"No, Quentin!" Gavin grasped the hands clutching his collar. "Let go. Dad's all right, at least for now.  
  
"I...had decided not to tell you the rest of it. The worst part. But if you insist, I will."  
  
_"I insist."_  
  
"All right. Roger wasn't locked in a cell that first night. And Julian was so sure he wouldn't be affected that he hadn't warned him, hadn't prepared him at all. Maybe that would have made a difference, I don't know. Julian saw him transform into the werewolf, but he couldn't restrain him--"  
  
"Did he attack Julian?"  
  
"No. Julian was wearing a protective medallion, because he expected to be near Dad later that night.   
  
"The wolf ran into the woods. He mauled two people and frightened several others that night, but no one was killed or badly injured. And everyone who saw him had been drinking, so the police didn't take the reports seriously.  
  
"Julian went searching for Roger next morning. He found him in the alley behind the Blue Whale, still unconscious. Somehow, he got him in the car--thank God--and out of town before he came to.  
  
"Quentin, when Roger came to, he...he began...screaming and raving. And he...never stopped. The experience had...had..._caused his mind to snap!_"  
  
Quentin gave a strangled gasp. "You mean...he's...he's still--?"  
  
Gavin nodded bitterly. "Yes. There hasn't been any significant improvement. He's quiet at times, but not coherent. Constantly terrified.  
  
"And of course, he'll have to go through the horror that caused it again and again, every month, for the rest of his life.  
  
"Julian has told Dad that in light of that, we should...reconcile ourselves to the likelihood...that Roger is _hopelessly insane_."  
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Quentin sat transfixed. From far away he heard his own voice say, "Oh God, _noooooooo_..."  
  
He felt a need to scream, but no further sound came.  
  
_Insane insane insane insane insane...  
  
_He saw _her_ eyes again, Jenny's mad accusing eyes, in the instant before she plunged a knife into his chest...  
  
"Are you all right, Quentin?" Gavin was looking into his face anxiously, rubbing his hands. "You're cold as ice! I didn't expect you to take it this hard. You don't even know Roger."  
  
"I...I'm all right." He tried to concentrate on the here and now. "It's true I've never met Roger, but he is my grandson. I certainly know you and Jamison."  
  
He was still speaking breathlessly, his heart pounding.  
  
There was no point in telling Gavin that the specter of insanity had haunted him for most of his life. Ever since that terrifying experience with Jenny--the wife he had failed in so many ways--he had feared the gods would one day exact retribution for his sins by destroying _his_ mind.  
  
Perhaps this was worse.  
  
He needed air. He stood up and gripped the balcony railing, clutching it until the metal dug into his palms and the pain helped clear his head.  
  
Gavin was saying, "Julian said Roger wasn't weaker than the rest of us, or anything like that. He'd read of this happening before, in rare cases. No one knows for sure, but it's thought that with some individuals, the human mind doesn't kick out completely when the werewolf takes over. The human is aware of what's happening but can't control it, and that drives him mad."  
  
"Yes," Quentin said abstractedly, "I've heard that theory, too."  
  
"I'm sorry I upset you by telling you. You can see there's nothing anyone can do to help."  
  
He started to nod in agreement.  
  
And then he froze, unable to move or breathe, as he recalled the words of an ancient sorcerer he'd met in the Himalayas.  
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_No, no..._  
  
An unworthy but very human part of him recoiled, wished desperately that he hadn't remembered. But there it was. A possible solution. And if there ever could be a crisis serious enough to warrant the action that old man had described, this was it.  
  
Icy terror clawed at the pit of his stomach.  
  
_Do the right thing, damn you! It's your own fault this grandson, Roger, is a stranger.  
  
Think of Jamison, only of Jamison. Seventy years old now. Think what this latest shock must be doing to him.  
  
For once in your life, try to be worthy of the son you fathered._  
  
"Gavin," he asked, "did I understand you to say Dr. Hoffman only considers the case hopeless because Roger will have to endure the transformation every month?"  
  
"Y-yes. If it could, magically, be all over--no more werewolf curse--a psychiatrist with Julian's credentials could probably cure him. But that's not going to happen."  
  
"Don't be so sure." He weighed his words carefully. "It may be possible to remove the curse from Roger--only from Roger--if I can find my portrait."  
  
He turned to look at Gavin. Saw, as he expected, complete bewilderment.  
  
"I don't see any connection. What can you do with your portrait that will help Roger?"  
  
"It's not what I can do with it, exactly." _Mustn't get into a discussion about what I'm planning._ "Over the years I've made a point of seeking out psychically gifted artists, trying to find another one with the same talent as Charles Tate. Tate's still alive, but he and I were bitter enemies, so there's no way he'd help another member of the Collins family.  
  
"I never did find an artist with the same talent. But in Italy, I found one who came close. Giuseppe Battaglia. If he drew a picture of a vase, let's say, and then hurled the real vase across the room, the vase in the picture would shatter, not the real one. Problem was, he could only influence inanimate objects.  
  
"But he told me that if he could study _my_ portrait, he could almost certainly duplicate what Tate had done."  
  
"Ah...I see." Gavin frowned. "But if you haven't found the portrait in all these years of searching, how do you expect to find it now?"  
  
"You don't understand. I haven't been searching! I was afraid an active search would attract Petofi's attention, do more harm than good. Now he's gone.  
  
"Besides, it probably will be easier to find now than it would have been forty or even twenty years ago. Better records are kept of transactions in the art world, communications are better. I'm more sophisticated and knowledgeable." He managed a grin. "Last but not least, I have more money!"  
  
Gavin smiled weakly. "Do you have any idea who has it?"  
  
Quentin nodded. "A couple ideas. Starting points, at least.  
  
"To begin with, I've always believed Tate stole it from Collinwood. Not long afterward, there was a fire in his studio. But obviously, the portrait wasn't destroyed.  
  
"One possibility is that it was stolen by a looter. If so, anyone who looked at it during a full moon would have realized he had something very unusual. It probably would have wound up being sold to a collector of occult curiosities. The present owner may have no idea whose portrait it is.  
  
"The other strong possibility is that Tate himself retrieved it after the fire. He would have preserved it, not for my sake, but for use as insurance in any future dealings with Petofi.  
  
"I've often asked myself...if I were Tate, what would I have done with it? I wouldn't have kept it with me--too risky. I think I would have painted another commissioned portrait over it. Portraits tend to stay in the subject's family for generations, if only because most of them have very little resale value. So Tate would have known exactly where it was.  
  
"If I pretend to have a passion for Tates and offer to buy any and all of them, for way more than they're worth...and use my own contacts in the occult world to check out the occult curiosities angle...I can't be sure I'll find it, but there's a good chance."  
  
Gavin's eyes had lit up. "Quentin, I have another idea. Do you know whether a Tate portrait of Garth Blackwood is keeping _this_ body in existence? I realize it wouldn't be the same, there never would have been a werewolf curse transferred to it. But if that portrait proved easier to find, it might help Battaglia--"  
  
Quentin shook his head. "Good idea, but no--I feel sure there isn't one." _And a good thing, too. If Gavin produced his portrait, how would I explain why we couldn't go to Battaglia with it?_ "Tate probably did use a portrait--or, more likely, a hasty drawing--to conjure up Garth Blackwood. But Blackwood turned on him and Petofi, and they must have tried desperately to get rid of him. I'm sure the first thing they would have done was destroy the drawing. Why that didn't destroy him, I don't know."  
  
"It was just a thought." Gavin clasped Quentin's hand. "Whether or not this idea pans out, _thank you_, Quentin! I didn't think I'd ever know hope again."  
  
"We're family, Gavin. We're in this together."  
  
"That's right. And I want to help you search for the portrait."  
  
"Great!"  
  
The handshake wasn't enough. Quentin pulled his grandson into a quick embrace.  
  
Then he turned back to the railing--hiding the tears that welled in his eyes. Blinking hard, he took a final, "casual" look at his surroundings before going inside.  
  
His life had changed irreversibly in the last half hour, and he felt a vague surprise that nothing else had changed. The Mediterranean still lay shimmering at his feet. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, and sounds of splashing and innocent laughter drifted up from the beach fronting the hotel.  
  
_I've been meaning to buy a sailboat for years. Why didn't I ever get that sailboat?  
  
Lovers on the beach...Barnabas must be dead by now. I wish I'd been able to establish, for my own satisfaction, that he had a happy life with Kitty.  
  
He would have been amused at how easily I misled Gavin, without telling a single lie.  
  
Just neglected to mention that Giuseppe Battaglia has been dead for over forty years._  
  
"All right," he said briskly. "Let's go in and start making phone calls."


	2. Jamison

  
  
When Quentin woke that day, after noon in Monaco, it was only 7:30 in Collinsport. But Jamison Collins had already been up for an hour.  
  
Jamison woke in his homey, cheerfully decorated room at Windcliff--as he had, one or two mornings a month, for nigh on half a century. For a moment he dared to hope it was one of _those_ mornings, and the nightmare about Roger had been just that, a nightmare.  
  
But then he sat up--and had to face reality. He felt tired, but not exhausted, not weak or sick. And ironically, the sun streaming through the window was itself proof the "nightmare" was real. On _those_ mornings Julian wanted him to sleep late, and the blinds were closed. He had been in full command of his faculties when he'd gone to bed last night--or rather, at 2:30 this morning--and he'd left the blinds open deliberately, to use the sun as an alarm clock.  
  
_Not that there's any real hurry_, he thought dejectedly as he trudged to the bathroom. Roger would still be heavily sedated, to assure him at least a few hours' rest. There was precious little Jamison could do for his son at any time, but less than nothing at daybreak. Julian had probably been right in urging him to quit spending his nights on a cot in Roger's room.  
  
And in any case, if he wanted Julian to accede to his plan for Friday, he'd have to be a model of reasonableness about everything else.  
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A hot shower had its usual restorative effect, and he took time to use shampoo and do a thorough job of washing his still-thick, longish hair. On a warm day, as this promised to be, he could let it dry of its own accord. In features and coloring Jamison bore a stronger resemblance to his uncle Edward and son Roger than to Quentin and Gavin. But his height was one legacy of his father, and he liked to think the thickness of his barely-graying hair was another.  
  
As he toweled himself off--feeling better, physically, than he usually did when he occupied these rooms--he smiled at the thought of the activity on the other side of the wall. It would be, he knew, just as it was on _those_ days.   
  
Julian always had a staffer posted in the hall, listening through the wall for the sound of his shower. They'd wait a few minutes--he'd never figured out how long it normally took him to shave and dress, but Julian had it timed to the second. At precisely the right moment there would be a tap on the door, and someone would appear with a newspaper and a nutritious breakfast.  
  
At this hour, it wouldn't be Julian. At least he hoped it wouldn't. The man had to rest sometime.   
  
Julian was in his mid-seventies, and the strain of these past weeks had visibly aged him. It was only yesterday that Jamison had realized the once-auburn hair was now completely white.  
  
_I've been spoiled_, Jamison thought ruefully.   
  
Thanks to Julian, the werewolf curse had been little more than an inconvenience to him all these years. He'd arrive at Windcliff in mid-afternoon, and by nightfall he'd be dozing on a mattress on the floor of his padded cell. The pain and convulsions, when they came, were severe--no getting around that, and they took more out of him as he grew older. But they would have been much worse without the drugs and muscle relaxants Julian gave him.   
  
He never had to see blood, never had to see the stray animals Julian provided to be the werewolf's victims. He simply blacked out in his cell and woke in a comfortable bed, clean, dressed in his own pajamas.  
  
True, he also woke sore, ill, and bone-weary. In recent months it had taken him a disturbingly long time to recover. But he never had to fear for his or his loved ones' safety, or deal with the ugly realities of the curse.  
  
It had, of course, taken a toll on his personal life. A wife he should have divorced, in love only with his wealth and position, had been able to blackmail him into continuing the marriage. She'd died in a fall down the stairs during one of their quarrels, in full view of the three children. He hadn't pushed her, but he hadn't reached out to grab her and try to save her, either, and the children knew it.   
  
He'd never been sure whether the gulf between him and them owed more to that, or to the "business trips" that had made him miss so many special occasions. He'd eventually told Gavin the truth about those absences. But he knew Elizabeth and Roger had realized he never "traveled" beyond Windcliff...and shared the widely-held, completely baseless notion that he and Julian were lovers.  
  
Julian had arguably suffered more than he. Drawn to his case by intellectual interest and hope of "curing" a werewolf, the young doctor who treated and protected him while he attended Harvard had become his closest friend. It was Julian who saw the blood, saw the animals--alive and dead--and had the grisly task of disposing of the carcasses.  
  
His wife had left him years ago, taking their five-year-old daughter with her. And although Julian denied it, Jamison had always believed she had either taken the sexual rumors seriously, or learned the real truth about her husband's friend and been unable to cope with it.  
  
Sighing, Jamison tucked his shirt into his slacks. He buttoned a last button...and a knock came at the door.  
  
It was Julian.  
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Jamison didn't mean to mention his plan for Friday till later in the week. But he'd resolved to be "reasonable," so he let himself be persuaded to eat a hearty breakfast. Julian had brought his own breakfast as well, and they ate in companionable near-silence, sharing the morning paper.  
  
At last Jamison wiped his mouth with a napkin and said what was really on his mind. "Did you look in on Roger on your way here?"  
  
"Yes." Julian nodded vigorously, then hurried to swallow his mouthful of toast. "He had a peaceful night, Jim. Like I told you, there's no need for you to be there all night."  
  
Jamison knew the doctor was refraining from adding what he really thought: that given Roger's condition, there was nothing his father could do at any hour that a nurse couldn't do as well or better.  
  
Instead, he continued, "The sedative was starting to wear off. He should be awake by the time you get there."  
  
"Thanks." Jamison hesitated momentarily. "You are still trying new drugs, aren't you?"  
  
Julian looked startled. "Of course! Jim, just because I gave you my honest prognosis--which wasn't favorable--don't imagine I've given up! I haven't, and I never will.  
  
"I'm trying something new almost every day, but I still haven't found a drug that has any therapeutic effect. I can ease his suffering by sedating him into a stupor, but not for more than a few hours at a time. If I overuse sedatives, his system will become resistant and they won't be effective when he needs them most."  
  
"Like...Friday."  
  
"Yes. Like Friday."  
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
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Jamison entered Roger's room at 8:30. A bleary-eyed male nurse looked up at him.  
  
"Good morning, Mr. Collins," the man said quietly, moving away from the bed.  
  
"Morning." Jamison spoke politely, but saw only his son.  
  
Roger was dressed in pajamas, free of any restraints, lying loosely curled on his right side in a large, comfortable bed. His slender body vibrated like a tuning fork. His eyes were open, sweat glistened on his face, and he was whimpering.  
  
Jamison eased himself into the bedside chair, unsure what to do. Sometimes Roger responded to a voice, sometimes only to touch. And regardless of the gentleness of the approach, the response might be anything from slight relaxation to screaming or panicky violence.  
  
But he was clearly suffering now.  
  
"Good morning, son," Jamison said softly.  
  
Roger tensed. He made no attempt at eye contact, but the whimpering subsided. As if he was unable to reach out, to communicate...but was listening, waiting.  
  
Jamison crooned soothingly, started to stroke the fine, sandy hair.  
  
And Roger went into a frenzy.   
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He began to scream, a high-pitched keening wail that sounded like nothing human. Curling into a tight fetal position, he rolled frantically back and forth on the bed.  
  
Jamison felt nothing...beyond wonder at his own steadiness as he helped the nurse subdue him.  
  
They held him tightly, both of them, till he became exhausted. Then he collapsed limply in his father's arms, panting like an animal. Jamison held him, rocked him, and he slept briefly. Later he lay quietly, staring at the ceiling, while Jamison gave him a sponge bath.  
  
At lunchtime they got him into a sitting position, and the nurse on duty held him, gently but firmly pinning his arms, while Jamison spoon-fed him. It was an hour-long struggle, but he consumed a reasonable amount of food and kept it down.  
  
Then he began crying piteously--evidently tired. They tried to make him comfortable, darkening the room to let him sleep. But five minutes later he was sitting up with his arms clasped around his knees, rocking himself violently, gibbering.  
  
During the afternoon another drug was tried and found ineffective. The injection caused Roger considerable pain, and he wept for more than an hour.  
  
Once he looked directly at Jamison and said, "Dad," as he'd done on two previous occasions. But that was all: one word, spoken without inflection or emotion. No more and no less meaningful than if he'd looked at a spoon and said, "Spoon."  
  
Jamison gave his son another sponge bath, and fed him his dinner. This was less successful than lunch. Roger jerked his head away repeatedly, spitting out more food than he swallowed. Finally, after eating relatively little, he vomited.  
  
"Probably that drug in his system," said the nurse.  
  
Jamison insisted on cleaning up the mess.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Later, with Roger dozing fitfully and the nurse on break, he allowed himself to weep.   
  
He had become very attached to this son in recent years, with Gavin gone and Elizabeth becoming more and more eccentric. The need to cope with Elizabeth had forged a bond, for the first time, between him and Roger. Roger had been away at college when whatever-it-was went wrong in his sister's marriage. So he was just as ignorant of the facts as Jamison, who'd been on one of his "business trips"...  
  
_Stop lying to yourself!  
  
You know what happened, and why.  
  
You ruined your daughter's life, like you do every life you touch.  
  
Elizabeth murdered her husband that weekend. Murdered him because she'd just found out about his embezzling.  
  
Embezzling you'd been aware of for years.  
  
Embezzling you tolerated...because you were afraid she'd put him up to it._  
  
Jamison had washed all traces of Roger's vomit from his hands and clothes, but he still felt dirty.  
.  
.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
.  
.  
He had a late dinner with Julian in the doctor's converted farmhouse a mile from Windcliff. Both men were good cooks, and they prepared the meal together.  
  
Jamison felt a twinge of regret that his friend, a Jew, no longer kept ingredients in stock for kosher cooking. That would have been a welcome change.  
  
He usually enjoyed these dinners. But tonight he couldn't shake that sense of regret.  
  
It went beyond kosher food.  
  
It went beyond his grief over Roger.  
  
It was partly the house. The silent, soulless house.  
  
A perfect place to raise children, wasted.  
  
And in the back of his mind, a wish, a dream of something that might have been, a person who might have brought light and laughter into this house and made it a home...  
  
Ridiculous. His own foolish imaginings, nothing more, a lifetime ago.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
They prepared to return to Windcliff at 10:00. Julian went out the kitchen door first, with a casual reminder to Jamison that it would lock automatically.   
  
Jamison paused in the doorway. "God, it's gotten cold out! Wish I'd brought a sweater."  
  
Julian was halfway to the garage, but he stopped and turned around. "Me too. Why don't you borrow one of mine, and pick one up for me while you're at it? There are plenty of them in my bedroom closet. First room on your right at the top of the stairs."  
  
Jamison said, "Sure! Thanks," and went back into the house while Julian continued toward the garage.  
  
He climbed the stairs easily, but not without a grimace as he realized that only a few years ago, he would have taken them two at a time.  
  
Stairs like these...not _these_ stairs. Come to think of it, he'd never been upstairs in Julian's house in his life.  
  
He turned into the bedroom, switched on the light.  
  
And he saw it.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
He stood stock still, not believing his eyes.  
  
In a place of honor on the dresser, the only photo in the room...  
  
He tried to deny the evidence of his senses. To tell himself it was Julian's ex-wife, or a young picture of his mother.  
  
But it wasn't.  
  
It was a face Jamison knew. "Attractive" rather than beautiful, but an honest, straightforward face, alight with integrity, framed by a mane of hair as thick and unruly as his own.  
  
_Nora._  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Julian appeared at his elbow, breathing hard. "I--I sent you up here before I remembered--what you'd see."  
  
Jamison sat down on the bed, shaken. "You've...kept a picture of my sister Nora on your dresser all these years?"  
  
Nora, who'd left home at twenty after a row with her father and stepmother, leaving another aching void in Jamison's life to match the one left by Quentin.  
  
Julian nodded. "Obviously. I put it away while I was married to Miriam, of course. I did _care for_ Miriam." He said it defensively, like a man trying to convince himself.  
  
"You were in love with my sister," Jamison said slowly. "So it _wasn't_ my imagination! All these years I've thought it was..." His voice trailed off. "But then...I didn't imagine her love for you, either! The day I introduced you, I thought I saw it. Immediate attraction, on both sides. I was so thrilled..."  
  
He looked up at Julian, suddenly feeling like a hurt, betrayed child who'd learned that a gift his parents denied him had been very much within their reach.  
  
To his horror, Julian gave a harsh, bitter laugh--that ended in a half-sob.  
  
"Yes, we were in love," he acknowledged when he'd caught his breath. "I never wanted you to know what happened. You were away, doing graduate work in a place where you were safe, with friends to protect you...for a little while.  
  
"Use your head, Jim. Can you imagine Edward Collins letting his daughter marry a Jew?"  
  
Jamison gasped. In his innocent delight at the idea of Julian and Nora together, he'd never thought of Edward's probable reaction.  
  
"No. But..."  
  
He mulled it over, convinced himself he was thinking rationally before he went on.  
  
"But I also can't imagine Nora letting him dictate to her. What could he do? Disown her? Disinherit her? The money he was managing belonged to his wife. And everyone must have known I'd provide for Nora, once I inherited from Judith.  
  
"Besides, when she ran off, she proved she didn't care about an inheritance. She threw it away. I couldn't share with her because I couldn't find her.  
  
"I can't believe Nora wouldn't have defied Edward to marry you. Even if it meant subsisting on bread and water for the rest of her life!"  
  
"Oh, she would have. Beyond a doubt. And that's why she was so hurt when--" Julian's voice broke.  
  
A full minute passed before he got the words out.  
  
"When...Edward was able to...buy me off."  
  
_"Buy you off?"_   
  
Jamison felt his world slipping out from under him.  
  
_Is any of this real?  
  
Am I as insane as Roger?_  
  
Julian sank down on the bed beside him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I wish I didn't have to tell you. But once you saw that picture, I knew there was no turning back. You're confused now, but if I don't explain, you'll figure it out later.  
  
"Don't you remember, Jim? Edward and his wife Anne were the philanthropists who financed the building of Windcliff. Edward threatened to withdraw funding if I didn't give up his daughter!  
  
"I knew I couldn't get the money anywhere else. All you had at the time was income from a trust fund. Your aunt Judith was wealthier than Edward's wife, but you know what a tightwad she was. Lavished money on Charity and her no-account husband Shaw, but no one else could hope to see a penny while Judith lived."  
  
"And you _needed_ the hospital..._here_...to protect _me_," Jamison whispered. "I was determined to live at Collinwood, much as I hated it, in the hope Quentin would one day come back."  
  
Julian said dryly, "I didn't understand your reason at the time."  
  
"And I...understood so little about you, when I thought I knew you so well..." Jamison shook his head. "Couldn't you have told Edward my secret? And Nora?"  
  
"No." Julian sighed. "I was sure your condition was inherited. You always referred to it as a curse, which ruled out the possibility you'd simply been bitten by another werewolf. And you were only twenty-one when we met, a thoroughly decent person. I couldn't believe you yourself had made an enemy capable of putting a werewolf curse on you.  
  
"But Edward, your supposed father, wasn't a werewolf! That suggested he wasn't your real father. Which was all the more embarrassing because the family resemblance proved you _were_ a _Collins._  
  
"A few hours' digging in the records revealed there had been a werewolf in Collinsport in 1897. And your uncle Carl, old enough to have been your father, had died mysteriously that same year..."  
  
"So you put two and two together and came up with five."  
  
"Yes. But whether that line of reasoning was correct was less important than my belief Edward would reach the same conclusion. I was afraid that if he did, he'd refuse to protect you."  
  
Reluctantly, Jamison nodded. "I think you were right. He might have identified my father correctly, but that wouldn't change the bottom line. What about Nora?"  
  
Julian winced. "I trusted her completely, of course. And she idolized her big brother. The only reason I didn't confide in her was because of the issue of your paternity.  
  
"Remember, I didn't know the real reason you were so bent on staying at Collinwood. I assumed your upbringing had made you passionately devoted to the Collins heritage. And I made the further mistake of judging your sister by you.  
  
"I believed that if I told Nora about the curse, she'd draw the same conclusions I had. Knowing her mother had been...a faithless wife...would have cast doubt on _her_ paternity, too. And Nora didn't resemble any of the family!  
  
"I think now that wouldn't have bothered her in the least. But at the time, I imagined I was in danger of stripping her of an identity that might be the most important thing in her life."  
  
"I...see the problem." Jamison swallowed hard, blinking back tears. "So you just let her think you could be bought off?"  
  
"I had no alternative. She knew there was no real need for a mental hospital here, knew I could easily find a position somewhere else. So she saw no justification for what I was doing. Condemned me as bitterly as she did her father.  
  
"She was angry and disillusioned, and she turned her back on Collinsport forever."  
  
"You've never stopped loving her." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
"No. There are...some people...who can love...only once."  
  
Jamison stared numbly at the picture. "Do you have any idea what became of her?"  
  
"Interesting." Julian gave him a quizzical look. "Even after what I just told you, you don't express fear she may have committed suicide."  
  
"No. Because I know my sister. She was strong, a survivor. The kind of person _I_ want to be. She had too much self-respect to take her own life because she was disillusioned with someone else. If I know anything, I know that!"  
  
"You're right." Julian smiled, his eyes shining with pride. "Quite by chance, I saw her picture and an article about her in a London paper two years ago. Not an obituary--she's still alive, or at least she was then.  
  
"She went to England, changed her name to Honor Jamison. I had known she was considering that change in her first name, because 'Nora' had been chosen to rhyme with 'Laura.'  
  
"She became, of all things, a noted travel photographer." He paused, then added softly, "She never married."  
  
Jamison sighed. Then, on a sudden hunch, he asked, "Why did Miriam leave you?"  
  
"I think you can guess."  
  
"I think so too. She heard a rumor that you'd had a romance with a Gentile girl, and broken her heart by letting her wealthy bigot father buy you off. Miriam confronted you, and when you didn't deny it, she walked out."  
  
"That's about it."  
  
"But why didn't you tell her the truth? Surely she would have understood--"  
  
"Two reasons. First, Miriam was liberal and enlightened about many things, but not the occult. She wouldn't have cooperated in protecting a werewolf. And remember, back then you weren't willing to tell anyone--even me--how the curse had originated.  
  
"Second, I was in a no-win situation. Miriam wasn't happy with the thought that I'd trifled with another woman. But if I'd been forced to admit Nora was the great love of my life, she couldn't have accepted that, either. I would have lost her in any case, so I chose not to hurt her by letting her know she was...second best."  
  
Jamison nodded bleakly. "Julian...one more question. Obviously, you don't have to answer.   
  
"But...were you and my sister lovers? In the sexual sense?" He hoped desperately that they'd at least had _that_.  
  
Quietly, "Yes."  
  
"I'm glad."  
  
Later he would wonder if Julian, knowing the answer he hoped for, had lied.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
Jamison didn't try to apologize for the grief he had caused.  
  
No words would have been adequate.  
  
But as they drove back to Windcliff, the small voice in his head gave him no peace.  
  
_Ruined...ruined...**like every life you touch...**_****  
  



End file.
